


Embroidery over Stains

by Myrida



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Early Post Canon Cardassia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 02:45:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12289554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myrida/pseuds/Myrida
Summary: The first winter after the Dominion War teaches Cardassia that her losses are not yet counted. But can beauty still be found? Can Parmak and Garak create something breathtaking from the frozen rubble?





	Embroidery over Stains

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ssorrell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssorrell/gifts).



> Written for the first round of the lizard-lovin fanwork exchange. For the wonderful and inspiring Kellan/Sallysorrell. Without them, I would not have signed up.

* * *

Dear Doctor Bashir,

allow me to briefly introduce myself: my name is Kelas Parmak, and I’m a surgeon working at the Central Medical Clinic in Cardassia City. I fear I have no time for a more in depth introduction. We do not know each other, although I certainly know _of_ you – and I’m writing you without the knowledge of our mutual friend, Elim Garak. The fact of the matter is, the situation in the capital is becoming desperate. It is becoming clear to me with every passing day, that the centre cannot hold: we are hopelessly in need of relief, but I fear the official channels have become increasingly slow. I would never ask you this, if it were only for me, but people are dying in the streets already, and it will only get worse from here… and so, I must implore you to search your conscience and your heart, if there is any love for this world and its people to be found. If you require it, I will beg for your help, and I do not say this lightly.

Please, Doctor. We need every hand we can get. If you can find it in yourself to come, I will be indebted to you forever.

Kelas Parmak

* * *

The first winter after the Fire was the harshest in decades. Cardassian winters were long and bitingly cold as a rule, though usually there was little snow due to the dryness of the climate – but after the Fire, what little moisture there was in the air caught on the abundance of dust; thermal storms tossed those tiny ice nuclei up and down the planet’s atmosphere, freezing and thawing, and freezing again into thick flakes. When the water was released as snow, it left the air cleaner, but the ground covered in a thick layer of crystalline flakes coloured a sickly pale pink from the dust particles caught inside.

The sight held some beauty to the unknowing observer: it covered the crater riddled streets and softened the harsh edges of ruins. Lakarian, the city that would never be again, lay silent and deserted. Decades later, with the Fire a memory only in those old enough to have seen it, there would still be nothing: a stark reminder of where Cardassia’s ruthlessness had taken her, of how close her people had come to self immolation. Lakarian would never exist again, but here and now, the city, under the merciful cover of reddened snow, might even have seemed beautiful.

The planet Cardassia VI, once known as Cardassia Prime, proud, indomitable home world to the Cardassians and capital of the Cardassian Union, was for the time being without its proper name – the Union as a political entity did not exist any longer. The sixth planet of the Cardassian star system was under the combined administration of the Federation and the Klingon and Romulan Empires. Predictably, decision making was slow and inefficient. While the Klingons delegated their votes to their Federation allies and paid for relief work done on their behalf – what use, after all, was a conquered world brought so low that it could not sustain itself – the Romulans chose not to cooperate, but to attempt to isolate the parts of Cardassia they were interested in, making it almost impossible for relief workers to work on site.

What little infrastructure there was collapsed or was kept running only by immense effort of the communities and the meagre relief crews working overtime to secure the provision of basic supplies. There was next to no public transport, and heat, food and water soon became critical resources as the winter wore on.

The initial relief that the War was over, even at the cost of a tenth of the planet’s population, gave way to resignation and hopelessness: the devastation of the Fire still had not reached its full potential, and slowly, the surviving Cardassian people realised this in the cruellest way possible. Poverty hit those who had been holding on before, keeping themselves afloat, and it drove people to desperate measures. Sometimes, Cardassians could even be seen in the streets of the Romulan sectors, selling their bodies to the Romulan crews stationed on the homeworld – for some warmth, or a meal. And whoever saw it would turn a blind eye and despair: for what could they do, after all, to help? They were barely keeping it together themselves.

And the Cardassian people were unprepared to deal with snow: the wet cold ate at their slightly ectothermic reptilian metabolisms _fast_ , and many were surprised by its effects while outside. They did not freeze, not in the mammalian sense. They simply slowed, becoming ever more lethargic until their bodies shut down to the bare minimum. After that, they were either found or they died in agony after days of fading in and out of consciousness while their organs failed one after the other. Many, many more died that winter.

And so, the first winter after the Fire saw Cardassia City’s clinic work overtime, under the harshest of conditions: more and more cases of frostbite and severe hypothermia kept coming in, while other accidents also increased due to the difficult weather conditions… and the effects of sustained malnutrition, cramped, unsanitary living, and exposure to environmental hazards were beginning to show, too. The clinic was understaffed, all the rooms and beds constantly occupied, and the facility was kept running, it sometimes seemed, on pure will alone.

Doctor Kelas Parmak signed off on another data PADD asking for aid from the Federation: supplies, first and foremost, but Parmak knew what the clinic really needed was medical professionals.

More than half the nurses who worked on the station were untrained and overworked to the brink of their health, and the trained nurses were taking over the roles of medical assistants and paramedics as much as Parmak and his colleagues dared to ask of them. Parmak knew that they couldn’t go on like this, that it was as inherently unsustainable as Cardassia’s exploitation of her resources had been. The doctors themselves may to some degree be used to demanding schedules – although they’d had two cases of collapse already – but the simple and damning fact was that they were working themselves into their own sickbeds. Parmak gave them three months if no relief came, and then they would have to close down the clinic to all but the most severe cases. It would only be downhill from there, corruption would blossom once again as anger rose and riots started, and the fallout would be horrifying.

The official channels were proving every bit as inefficient as Parmak had feared all along, and the unofficial ones… Parmak sighed, silencing his conscience once again. It was done. He had sent the letter, and he could always confess later. Parmak shook himself out of his reverie. Blinking at the intruding memory of confession, he stood up and stretched. The winter sun was already low on the horizon, casting the surgeon’s office into creeping shadows.

It was almost five weeks ago that Parmak had found Garak in his shed, open to the biting cold of the outside, no longer shivering. He had taken one look at the older man’s ashen scales with their typical darkened edges, and had known he had come just in the nick of time.

* * *

Garak had of course known the dangers of the wet cold, just like everybody else. And just like everybody else, he was surprised by it nonetheless. He found that he couldn’t bear closing the doors, or the windows. Some days, he could not even bear pulling blankets over himself: he would try, of course – he wasn’t suicidal, and Cardassians seldom are – but he would invariably find himself a shivering wreck, trembling from something more insidious even than the cold, unable to breathe… until he opened the door or threw off the blanket. One day, he fell asleep like that, and when he woke up, he knew almost instantly he was in deep trouble.

He had cooled too much overnight, and it soon dawned on him that he did not have the means to raise his temperature to within the norm range again. All he could hope to do was to maintain his current core temperature, but that, too, became an impossibility when he found he had to leave the shelter of his shed: he felt the walls were too close, oppressively close, and something was very, _very_ wrong with his breathing – there was no air in the room, and for a moment he was sure the cold he felt came from the vastness of space as an airlock was being released with him still inside.

Garak took his blanket and wrapped it around his midsection as he stumbled across the threshold and into his stone garden. There, at last, he found air. But there, at last, the cold found him.

To Cardassians, freezing felt like a slowing down. It was not the nagging discomfort they felt from temperatures dropping below 26 degrees centigrade – that, Garak had become used to during his time on Deep Space 9. Neither was it the shivering cold of temperatures well below comfort level, where they could still maintain a survivable body temperature. Actual freezing felt completely different. Garak’s mind went hazy within minutes. He was dimly aware that he should get back inside, but moving… moving was somehow difficult. Each step felt as if it was taken against some soft, unmoving resistance that inexorably slowed him down, muscles no longer reacting properly to the commands of his neural pathways. Garak gritted his teeth and made himself put one foot in front of the other.

Back inside was the only way he could go. Everything else was too far away for him to reach. Once inside, Garak sat on the bed, trembling, freezing and utterly, utterly scared. He needed a hot tea, a hot water bottle, something to warm him from the inside. Stumbling across the room, he clumsily opened the cupboard. His fingers were dangerously numb as he felt for the heating unit. He filled it with what little drinking water he had left from his ration, barely able to hold it as it filled and grew heavy. Garak put it down, breathing slowly, shallowly.

He couldn’t even feel panic when he turned it on, and the power gave out with a sizzle.

All he could do was think: _Please_ , not like this.

Then, he faded out of consciousness.

* * *

Parmak found him two days later, lying on the floor barely conscious, unable to move. The doctor had gone to look after Garak when the other man hadn’t turned up with a bit of something to eat, an anecdote, or simply that slightly sad air he seemed to live in now, for three days.

One look at his erstwhile interrogator come somewhat unlikely friend, told Parmak all he needed to know. He pulled his clinic comm from his shoulder bag, fumbling with the buttons and waited impatiently for someone to take his call. “I need an emergency skimmer up at Coranum, now”, he barked into the handheld device as soon as the line was open. “I’ve got a critical case of hypothermia at the old Tain residence… I’ll need a hospital bed… Yes, _yes_ , the Tain residence”, he snapped when the young man on the other end did a double take at the mention of Tain’s name. He could only understand too well the kind of shadow the man still threw from the grave, but every one of Parmak’s instincts as a doctor protested that this was not the time for doubt or resentment.

He cut the connection as soon as he was certain things were underway. Kneeling on the floor, he turned Garak onto his back, so that he could at least breathe without obstruction. Parmak pressed his fingers into the hollow of the other man’s throat, feeling for his pulse. It was faint and sluggish, but regular – a good sign, meaning that Garak’s heart was not affected yet. Parmak shifted and looked for signs of respiration. It was easy to mistake the slow and shallow breathing for respiratory failure, and the consequences of that mistake could be dire. After more than a full minute, Garak’s chest rose subtly, pulling in air… Oh, thank the heavens, Parmak thought. He took one of Garak’s far too cold arms and peeled back his tunic, baring his wrist methodically. Then, he bent to scent the other man’s skin: in torpor, Cardassian bodies released certain oils through the skin in various places; during this winter, Parmak had learned to diagnose by scenting the skin, and the slightly tart whiff he caught from Garak’s wrist was unmistakable: had he arrived just a few hours later, the chances of Garak’s survival would have been slim.

“Elim…” Parmak sighed, pressing a cold hand to his chest, gently stroking dry, ashen scales. “My friend, it’s going to be alright”, he said with more conviction than he felt.

Garak stirred, opening his eyes. They were without focus, only skimming Parmak’s face, looking at a point somewhere over his shoulders. “No… wasn’t me… please, home…”, Garak mumbled nonsensically, caught in the anguished story his addled mind was telling him.

Parmak squeezed Garak’s fingers even though he knew of course they would be too numb to feel it. “Shhh”, he soothed. “Shhhh”. He wanted to say more, but he could not think of the words: what could he have said, he asked himself. That Garak was safe? That he _was_ at home? One was a lie, and the other… Parmak felt that the words would not cover what he _wanted_ to say. There, in his mind, was a whole world that centered around the very man lying before him on the floor, fighting for his life. And he couldn’t speak any of it, because it still sometimes scared him to look his way.

When he heard the skimmer arrive, Parmak went outside to guide the driver to Tolan’s shed. There was only one paramedic; Parmak had never seen her before, but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth: he was glad that they had been able to send one at all – sometimes, the drivers had to do both jobs. Parmak went to assist her with the stretcher, packing it with heating pads and blankets. “Get those packs wrapped around his hands and feet”, he instructed in clipped tones, “and see that he’s covered at least. He mustn’t lose any more body heat, but don’t get him too warm too quickly, either. He might go into shock.”

The paramedic worked efficiently at his side. Together, they got Garak ready for transport in minutes. Parmak carefully closed the doors and windows of the shed behind himself before hopping onto the skimmer after the paramedic. They sped off into the quickly falling evening. Parmak kept a hand on the unconscious man on the stretcher, never losing contact entirely. If the paramedic thought it strange, she didn’t comment.

Back at the clinic, Parmak saw to it that Garak had a proper bed, hooked him up to the infusion, and took care to fold his clothes neatly on the chair at his bedside. He was ushered out by the chief nurse on duty, Taloc Fhrek, who reminded him tartly that even doctors sometimes needed sleep. Parmak raised his hands in surrender and left.

Only when he was back in his little recreation room, he let the trembling come. Parmak sat back on the cot he had put in one corner, feeling the strength drain from his body. He was shaking all over as he let himself feel the full force of his fear for his friend’s life. A life that he had just saved by mere happenstance. He could _so_ easily have lost Elim.

The thought brought Parmak up short. ‘Lost _Elim_?’ he thought, wide-eyed, taking a sharp breath. To the cold, yes, and as a tentative friend… But there was something more to that particular thought, something vastly more raw, and painful – and Parmak was aghast for even thinking it. He found he could not quiet his breathing, and the trembling stayed with him for a long time before he pulled up a blanket and fell asleep on his cot.

Outside, the city’s lights slowly came on and the icy wind battered against the windowpanes.

* * *

Garak woke up three days later. Nurse Fhrek came by Parmak’s parlour to tell him in person. It was no secret among clinic staff that Parmak had a fondness for the mysterious Elim Garak – they had been seen regularly in the canteen, eating by each other’s side, talking animatedly among themselves. Parmak thanked him with a nod and made his way to the room where Garak had been put up.

Garak was sitting up, huddled in blankets and shivering as his body resumed its normal function. He was still pale, but his scales had lost the sickly, ashen quality of the past days. “D-doctor”, he greeted as Parmak entered, and, drawing the crisp white privacy screens shut behind him, stood next to his bed.

Parmak was caught between relief and anger – relief that his friend was well on his way to recovery, and anger at the stupidity of the actions that brought him into this hospital bed in the first place. Relief won, eventually, and Parmak smiled. “Elim. It’s good to see you up again.”

Some of his conflicted feeling showed in the frown between his brow ridges. It was Garak who looked away first.

“You were there, weren’t you?” he managed after a minute’s silence stretching out inside the little cubicle the screens had created for them, stilling the chatter of his teeth long enough to speak. “You… f-found me?”

Parmak sighed softly. “Yes.” For a couple of seconds, the two men just looked at each other, each caught in his own mind. “If I had been just a little later…”

Garak met his eyes. “I know.” There was none of the usual flippancy he showed whenever Parmak admonished him to take better care of himself, in his tone. This time, it had been serious, and from the quiet acceptance in his voice, Garak was fully aware of it.

Suppressing the urge to clasp his hands in front of him, Parmak took in his friend’s expression. He found that he couldn’t read it at all: no way to judge what the other man was thinking, no way to _know_ … There was no easy way to ask what he needed to know, next: “Did you do it on purpose?”

Garak’s eyes widened in shocked surprise before he drew the blanket around himself more tightly. “Kelas… _no_.” Garak shivered violently. “No, I d-didn’t… I… the walls… I couldn’t breathe…”

Parmak nodded. He believed him. For all the foolishness he knew that particular notion to be, Parmak chose to believe Garak’s protestation of innocence in this case. “I’ve had Nurse Fhrek run a hot bath for you; he should be quite done with it now.”

When Parmak made to help Garak up, Garak caught his wrist in his hand, holding it still. “Kelas. I meant it. I wouldn’t _do_ that… and I’m more relieved and grateful that you found me than I could put into words, and I would beg your forgiveness–”

Parmak cut him off with a pained expression, “Please, Elim, not now… I cannot bear to hear it right now. For now, I just want you to take care of yourself for me, can you do that?”

Garak dropped his gaze, nodding. “Yes.”

“Good.” Parmak drew himself up, squaring his shoulders. “Then you will agree that it is too dangerous for you to live on your own at the moment, and you will consent to move into my house temporarily.” It was only reasonable, the doctor told himself – and he wasn’t wrong about that. As long as the winter lasted at least, he would be safer living with someone, and for all his considerable sociability, Garak had no one except Parmak.

“Yes”, softly.

“Good”, Parmak repeated, relaxing a little. “Then will you let go of my arm, please, and let me care for you?” He didn’t add 'you’re a patient, and I’m a doctor’, and Garak gave him a grateful little smile for leaving it merely implied.

“I’m all yours”, he said. It didn’t sound half as jokingly as he’d probably intended, and there was a breathy quality to his voice. Kelas Parmak didn’t comment.

They made their way to the on-station bathing room in silence. This part of the building had been miraculously spared by the Jem'Hadar on their rampage throughout Cardassia. It stood out in its incongruous spaciousness, but this of course was exactly why Parmak had instructed Fhrek to prepare the bath for Garak there.

Garak’s core body temperature was still too low, but now that his body had resumed normal function, he was no longer in danger of going into shock from heating up too quickly. A hot bath was a common method for Cardassians to achieve that, even though it was scarcely practised in the clinic now: there were other options, most prominently among them adjustable heating blankets. The clinic had them in stock, they were cheap in maintenance and easy to distribute among the patients who needed them. Of course, the prospect of a heating blanket held nothing of the sensual pleasure a hot bath did, and that fact had probably not escaped Garak, even as the shivering claimed his body anew.

Parmak stayed as Garak stripped naked and steadied him as he stepped into the tub and gingerly lowered himself into it with a deep, satisfied sigh.

“In a couple of minutes, when your circulation adapts to the heat, you will start experiencing pain in your extremities”, Parmak spoke in a too soft voice. “It’s nothing to worry about, but it can get quite intense. Try to endure it.”

Garak nodded. He could do that. He looked around noticing the variety of bathing products on the stand next to the tub. They were Parmak’s private property, but of course Garak didn’t know that. “Will you… help me wash?” he asked, carefully keeping his tone neutral.

Parmak drew in a breath at the question, suddenly acutely aware how inappropriately he was behaving; suddenly, also, acutely aware how much he *wanted* to answer in the affirmative. And once again, shocked and dismayed at his own thoughts. He shook his head, refusing to make eye contact. “I… I think you can manage that on your own, E– Garak…” He flushed. “I’ll leave you to it now. There is a set of fresh clothes on the stool behind the screen, please ring when you’re done.”

And with that, Parmak fled the room.

* * *

Garak watched him leave with a curious look on his face, halfway between puzzlement and regret. He shouldn’t have pushed, and he wondered why he had. He did, after all, know better. Garak knew he probably deserved to die a dozen times over, and he used to think he would probably meet with an early, painful death – but this was not what that was. This was not him, expediting poetic justice upon himself.

With a sigh, he sank into the hot water until only his head was above the waterline. Slowly, the shivering subsided. As it did, just like Parmak had predicted, Garak’s hands and feet began to sting. It was only slight at first, but after a while, it became a sharp ache that made him grit his teeth. Endure it, Parmak had said, and Garak resolved to do just that, and follow the doctor’s orders. He tried to focus on the warmth that slowly began to permeate his body, but the pain was intense and Garak found himself breathing deeply, exhaling against it whenever he felt another peak approaching.

It was deeply uncomfortable, but Garak needed to feel alive. He had just regained consciousness after collapsing at death’s doorstep, and this felt inexplicably wonderful, warm, real, and _raw_. He watched in fascination as his hands and feet began to flush, circulation spreading painfully into his toes and fingertips. “Ahh…” Garak groaned.

He ran his hand down his throat, sensation returning slowly into his fingertips. Teasing himself, he pressed soft, wet fingers into the sensitive scales lining his neck ridge, to counterbalance the pain. Garak shuddered. He shouldn’t, he knew, but the thoughts of his friend came back unbidden: the way he had stumbled over his name, the way his hand had been so steady in comparison as he’d helped him into the tub. The way he hadn’t looked away when Garak had stripped down to his scales.

If he had stayed, would he have stroked Garak’s neck in his stead? Would his hands have strayed to his chula just below the surface of the water? Or even lower than that, leaving them both unable to deny what they were doing anymore, unable to hide behind friendly gestures and medical methodicalness? Garak brushed his fingers along the delicate teardrop ridge below the hollow of his throat, drawing a small gasp from his lungs. No, he thought, catching himself before he could let it go any further – and he would, he was certain of that: the doctor had occupied his mind for months, and Garak ached for his touch. But he couldn’t do that now. He didn’t want it to be like this: shameful, clandestine, hidden.

His whole life had been like this, though the shame had only come later – Garak was under no illusion that what he had been was monstrous, not just for what he had done, but for the joy he had found in it. He recoiled at the thought, realising that somewhere along the way, between the hostile stares of Bajorans and the tender care of his one Human friend, between longing for home, locked away on a Federation space station and fighting for her alongside Damar, one of her few true heroes, he had lost the indifference, if not the taste. Somewhere between waking up to an abandoned Terok Nor, and finding himself in a hospital in the reluctant arms of a former… subject… no, _victim_ … he had learned to _want_ to be a better man.

Staring at his flushed hands, he dared to hope he could be.

* * *

Over the course of the next weeks, Parmak started to find little gifts in unexpected places. There were flowers. Of course, nobody knew where Garak would have found _flowers_ of all things, but the fact remained that there were _flowers_. Parmak found a single _mekla_ bloom in his med kit one day, and carefully took it out, placing it in a chipped mug that he filled with some melted snow. It had sat there, on his desk, until the flower had finally wilted, but Parmak had looked at it every day.

There was another one, a scarlet _perek_ blossom wedged between the pages of the book Parmak was reading whenever he wasn’t working at the clinic. Parmak took this one and pressed it between the heavy book covers, drying it, freezing its beauty in time even as the flower died – _perek_ for the dead, he thought, losing himself in his memories of the man who had put the flower there for him to find. They were, of course, as acute as ever, but somehow… somehow it didn’t feel quite so dark anymore.

On a different day, Parmak found the seam of his scrub sleeves lined with delicate floral embroidery. He was caught by surprise and stood there dumbstruck for a minute, shaking with silent, embarrassed laughter and hiding his face behind his hands. Nurse Fhrek only raised his brow ridges at the sight of Parmak’s sleeves. “More pretty flowers”, he commented drily, “let me guess…”

Parmak shook his head, “no, I’d rather you wouldn’t”, he said, but his eyes were still smiling.

“What, afraid it’d be accurate?” Fhrek asked, shaking his head at the doctor’s reticence. “He’s quite something, isn’t he, that Garak?”

Parmak met his eyes. “You could say that, yes…”

And he really was. There had been another one: He had unlocked his clinic comm one day, only to find that the display background was a litter of petals and blossoms that gently bobbed whenever he moved the device as if caught on a breeze. Parmak still didn’t know whether to be angry about the intrusion into his work comm, or amused at the little nods the flower heads gave when he shook it.

Suddenly, Parmak was torn from his reverie by the warning flash the very device gave before announcing loudly: “Dr Parmak to emergency surgical facility II, immediately.” Parmak acknowledged, getting up promptly. “Fhrek, with me”, he ordered, and the young man hurried after him.

* * *

Three hours later, Parmak and Fhrek emerged from the surgery. He’d lost her, and she’d been only 14 years old. Fhrek slammed his fist into the wall next to the surgery doors. “Damn _Romulans_ ”, he hissed, and Parmak couldn’t find it in himself to disagree. “Damn fucking Romulans”, Fhrek repeated in a toneless voice.

“We’re a conquered race, Taloc”, Parmak said quietly. “A mere decade ago, that would have been a Bajoran girl in there.”

Fhrek threw him a dirty look, but had to acknowledge Parmak had a point. Of course, a decade ago, Fhrek had been a child himself, and like all those his age, Fhrek was only now beginning to understand what had happened on Bajor.

It was easy to forget sometimes that people like Taloc Fhrek were not trained doctors, nor even medical assistants. He was a _nurse_ , and a very good one at that – but to lose a young woman on the operating table like this, was something Fhrek didn’t know how to deal with. Parmak put a gentle hand on the other man’s shoulder. “You did a fine job, Fhrek. Thank you.”

“I _let_ her _die_!” Fhrek said roughly, flinging his hand off as if stung. Parmak flinched at the outburst, but made no move to leave it alone.

“No, you didn’t”, Parmak insisted. “She died, and you fought for her life, just the same as I did. We lost, but you didn’t _let_ her die, and neither did I.”

Fhrek sighed. “I know… it’s just…”

“I know.” And he did, truly. “Go home, Taloc. Go to your friend, whoever they are, and be with them – just don’t be alone tonight.”

The other man nodded, starting to peel off his sugery scrubs slowly. He was going to do that. He’d go home and be with both his partners tonight, and be in good hands. Those of four months pregnant, one-armed Tarela with her kind heart and gentle eyes, and those of Mitrek, the child’s father and Taloc’s first lover.

Parmak stood there and watched the younger man slip out of his blood soiled work clothes, throw them into the laundry chute in the corner, and leave with a muttered “Thank you, doctor.” He nodded in reply and sank into a wobbly chair when he found himself finally alone, tears running down his cheeks. He was despairing of it all, of losing patients, no matter what age, of the way that girl had died, of the winter and its cold, and of his own acceptance of all of it.

Parmak wiped his eyes with his sleeve, noticing the stained embroidery, ruined.

He shrugged out of his scrubs, about to throw them down the chute as well, but then hesitated. Garak would know best what to do, he thought and very gently folded up the garment before putting it into his bag, weary to the bones.

The air was crisp and cold but thankfully dry when he stepped outside and began the walk home to Paldar. The stars seemed to blink in the freezing night, looking down on this struggling world with indifference, even as its people were fighting for survival every day. It was quiet as Parmak made his way through the northern end of Tarlak and into Paldar. He passed buildings that were partially lit, inhabited by those whose homes had been destroyed in the Fire, those who had had to find themselves other places to live. Other buildings were completely destroyed, torched to the ground with empty black holes for windows. None had the old splendour that used to shape this sector, home to the administrative centre of the Union. Now, the gloomy streets were barely lit, and Parmak encountered a couple of voles scattering as he crossed one corner.

* * *

It was late when Parmak finally drew around the corner of his street, walking up to his home. Garak was already waiting for him there, opening the door before he could punch in the key code.

“I called… I heard”, he said gently, leading him inside by the shoulder, taking his bag off him and putting it carefully down on the floor. The door swished shut behind him as Garak pulled Parmak into his arms, letting him rest his face against his neck ridge. Parmak went willingly, too tired to resist anymore, too aware of the fragility of life and the briefness of time.

“Come”, Garak whispered, and lead his friend into the bathroom. “Sit”, he indicated a stool he had brought from the kitchen. Parmak didn’t resist and sat down.

Garak took a knee, pulling off Parmak’s shoes and socks and rolling his pant legs up to the large knee scales. “Wait here, please”, he told Parmak before fetching the traditional basin from underneath the sink and filling it with buckets full of hot, soapy water.

Parmak’s eyes widened. “You can’t do that”, he protested.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ve used ice from outside, it’s not drinking water”, Garak replied, deliberately mistaking his meaning. He could, and he would. He’d been thinking about it all evening. “It’s not a full bath, but it’s the best we can do”, he added, a little apologetically.

“Elim, no… I… I can’t let you do that”, Parmak repeated weakly.

“Do what, Kelas?” Garak asked sweetly, pulling gently at his friend’s leg and immersing the first foot in the water. “Give a friend a good, relaxing foot bath after a trying day? Why ever not?”

“You know why not”, Parmak hissed, but couldn’t keep a deep rumble out of his voice.

Garak looked up at Parmak, waiting. “I don’t see why not?” he finally asked earnestly. “It used to be customary for a person of lesser social standing to do this for an honoured guest or family member of higher rank.”

“I’m not… you’re not—”, Parmak started, but Garak interrupted him.

“Yes, you are. And yes, I am. And it is as it should be, don’t you think? Look at the work you’re doing every day: your value to Cardassia is immeasurable. I, on the other hand… was part of what brought her to her knees.” Garak bent his head, emphasising his meaning and pulling Parmak’s other leg until both feet were in the hot water.

“But I can’t…” Parmak started, but trailed off into silence.

“I don’t see why not”, Garak repeated softly. “It’s no hardship for me.”

Parmak blinked slowly, breathing in and out. “But… can’t you see, Elim?”

Garak dipped his hands into the water, brushing his fingers along the outsides of Parmak’s feet, tracing the scales around his ankles. “No”, he admitted honestly, “I really can’t…” He traced the insteps, curling his fingers around and into the hollow of the soles, gently massaging the skin, feeling it relax minutely in the hot water.

Parmak’s voice broke. “It’s not right for me, to…”

“To do what?” Garak asked softly. “To let me serve you like this?” He took a piece of soap and lifted one foot out of the water, carefully placing it in the indentation in the rim of the basin. “I would… do a lot more for you, I’m sure you must realise by now…”

“… to want you like that.” It was barely more than a whisper ghosting over the shape of the words, but Garak heard.

“So you _do_ …” he breathed, the foot forgotten for the moment.

“Yes… oh, yes, Elim”, Parmak admitted, and it was clear from his tone that it was a confession. “I want you.”

“There’s not a thing wrong about that, my dear Kelas”, Garak reassured.

“… but like _that_?” Parmak asked with an air of self condemnation about him that made Garak _ache_ for him. “On your knees? Serving me? Its… perverse.”

“Any way you want me”, Garak whispered. “And on my knees, too, if that’s how I can be for you.”

Parmak shivered. “You don’t _mind_?”

Taking his time to wet the soap and rub it between his hands, Garak smiled at the other man. “Look at me, Kelas.” Parmak met his eyes reluctantly. “I don’t mind in the _least_.” Dropping his gaze, Garak began to lather Parmak’s foot thoroughly from top to bottom, cleaning even between his toes before carefully letting it slip back into the basin. “I’m _enjoying_ what I’m doing.”

He repeated the same procedure for the other foot, this time without speaking. Parmak, too, had fallen silent. He didn’t resist when Garak’s fingers carded between his toes, nor when he used his knuckles to massage the sole of his foot, nor when he gathered small amounts of water in his hands and slowly rinsed off the soap by pouring handfuls of water over his foot. Garak returned it into the water and stood to fetch a towel from the rack and Parmak’s ugly but comfortable slippers.

He dropped to his knees again to towel him off and help him into his slippers, before standing and taking one of Parmak’s hands in his own. “Come to bed, Kelas”, he said softly.

Parmak went.

* * *

They had time. They stood by the bed, exploring each other’s bodies underneath their garments, fingers brushing over ridges and scales, catching on fastenings coming loose one after the other, and tunics finally dropping to the floor, messy and unheeded. It was unhurried touches, and small gasps and moans, and mingled breath drunk from each others mouths.

Parmak gingerly traced Garak’s side, and Garak took Parmak’s hand, pressing his nails into the ridged skin just above the hips and dragging them across. “Ohh”, he moaned, as Parmak repeated the action with some more pressure, leaving a darkening trail behind. “Oh, yes, Kelas…”

Garak didn’t resist when Parmak opened his trousers and let them slide to his ankles, nor when he hooked his fingers into the waistband of his underwear and tugged it down.

“Beautiful”, Parmak whispered, reverently palming first Garak’s chula, then letting his hand wander down to his heated chuva. “To think that I almost lost you…”

Garak moaned; “I’m alive”, he whispered into the skin of Parmak’s chest, drawing licks and bites into the scaled surface, “I’m alive”, biting down on his neck ridge and making the doctor whimper, “I’m alive”, stepping out of his trousers and underwear and opening Parmak’s, reaching inside with curious, questing fingers. “I’m alive”, encountering wetness when he traced the other man’s slit, slicking his fingers. “I’m alive”, drawing his fingers up and pushing them into his own mouth, licking them clean. “Oh, if you only knew… how much I’ve longed for a taste of you…”

“Oh, mercies”, Parmak breathed when Garak’s fingers returned to his slit, tracing it, providing the most wonderful sensations. “Please, my dearest Elim… ”

“What do you want, Kelas?” Garak asked, nipping the other man’s chula sharply and making him gasp in surprise and desire. “Do you want me to open your purse for you, nice and slow? Or do you want to open mine? Oh… _oh_ , you do want that, don’t you, Kelas? Feel it…” he took Parmak’s hand and guided it between his legs, shivering as the other man pushed a fingertip past his sensitive seam scales, inside his slit. “O-ohh, _yes_ ”, he whispered, “deeper, Kelas, please…”

Garak fell silent on a hitched breath when Parmak gripped him by the hips and threw him bodily onto the mattress, quickly undressing himself the rest of the way. “Good heavens, Elim, your mouth should be illegal”, Parmak growled as he bent over Garak, biting and scratching and making him arch into his touch. “ _You_ should be illegal…”

“I used to be, you know? … oh, Kelas, _more_ ”, Garak demanded as Parmak pushed his finger inside his slit, rubbing along the seam and caressing the ridge running along the sheath inside that was still hiding his cock, making him _ache_. “… I want… _please_ , yes…”

Parmak shivered, and it might have been from the cool air, but they both knew it wasn’t. “My goodness, you’re wonderful, Elim…”, he cooed as he slowly fingered Garak into incoherence, thrusting two fingers in and out, curling this way and that to map out all the sweet, sensitive spots that made Garak gasp and babble nonsensically and spread his thighs apart for him. Parmak was mesmerised.

He wasn’t prepared when Garak drew him into his arms, pulling him close into his chest, and with a vicious bite that made Parmak cry out and buck his hip for friction, rolled them around. Garak pinned Parmak to the mattress by the wrists, straddling him, delighted when Parmak grinned fearlessly back at him. “I want to pleasure you, my dearest Kelas”, he said in a voice so gentle he wouldn’t have thought himself capable of it. His lips brushed the other man’s lightly as he spoke, “I want to make you tremble all over with need, and then”, he nipped the other man’s chin ridge, making him toss his head back in invitation, “and _then_ , I want to make you climax slowly… devastatingly.”

“Yes… oh, yes, Elim…” Parmak whimpered when Garak drew back to scoot down and kneel between his legs. Reverently, Garak stroked Parmak’s calf, brushing dancing fingertips into the back of his knee to feel the soft skin there, and then upwards along the inside of the thigh – Parmak held his breath, only letting out a frustrated little groan when Garak turned to his other leg instead of touching his glistening slit. Oh, it was right _there_ , in the way his breath caught whenever Garak came near, how much Parmak wanted to be gently opened and probed.

But Garak was nothing if not thorough. He bit and licked, and soothed the inside of Parmak’s knee, slowly working his way up before giving a single, long lick along the seam of Parmak’s slit, making him arch off the bed with a choked whine. “Oh, _Elim_ … you wonderful, cruel man…”

Garak swallowed hard. To hear those words, from this man, in this situation… he looked down into the other’s eyes and saw nothing but burning, consuming lust in there. With a shudder he could not prevent, he felt himself slide halfway from his sheath, opening and spreading his folds. “ _Kelas_ ”, he whispered, humbled to his very core, “my Kelas…”, as he everted fully into his own hand.

Bearing down, Garak rubbed his cock into Parmak’s chuva, smearing it with his fluid; Parmak had his eyes fixed on his lower teardrop ridge, licking his lips at the sight of the head of Garak’s cock catching on the elevated bumps. “Yes, just like that, Kelas… look at it… look at what you’re doing to me.”

In that moment, Parmak held all the power, even if he didn’t quite know it. He could have told Garak to do _anything_ , and Garak would have happily obeyed.

Garak hooked his thumbs behind Parmak’s knees, spreading them apart, watching the other man shiver at being so exposed. Parmak’s natural lubricant was leaking from his swollen slit, and Garak bent down, teasing the folds with lips and tongue, and just a hint of teeth that made Parmak gasp and breathe fast, rhythmically clenching and unclenching his inner muscles. “Ohh, so delicious…” Garak mumbled into the soft, sensitive scales, scenting, tasting deeply the other man’s arousal. He swirled his tongue inside, reducing Parmak to soft groans and silent pleas, drinking in all he had to give.

“I want you”, Garak mouthed into Parmak’s seam, “I want you to evert into my mouth, Kelas…” Parmak must have felt the words more than he heard them, but he understood Garak’s meaning perfectly judging from the whimper the simple caress of moving lips drew from him. Garak pushed a finger inside, sliding easily in to tickle the ridge on Parmak’s sheath, feeling its bumps twitch and raise against his touch. Oh, he knew Parmak wouldn’t be able to resist this, not for long, and yes, he could force him to evert but he knew that wasn’t for everyone.

Garak didn’t have to wait long: trembling all over, Parmak let himself slide out, the full length of him filling his mouth, so deeply Garak could not suppress a small choke. He hummed and sucked lightly, making Parmak plead and pant and twitch at every swirl of his tongue. Letting him slip out, Garak admired the beautiful curve of the organ in front of him… “So nice”, he whispered, “so beautiful… this is going to feel wonderful inside me.”

Parmak’s eyes flew open, wide. “Will you really… let me… open your purse?” he asked, and Garak nipped at the prick in front of him in response, making it _dance_ before him. “Yesss”, Parmak hissed.

Garak smiled, lips stretching along Parmak’s length. “There’s your answer”, he said, gently licking and teasing. “Yes. Yes, I will. I _want_ you to… I’ve been thinking about it for so long… imagining it. Sometimes”, he confessed, “sometimes I would touch my seam… wishing, _yearning_ for you.”

“Oh, mercies…” Parmak said, hips grinding into the soft friction of Garak’s lips, effectively quieting him, “oh, please stop, Elim, or I won’t last a minute..!”

“Shhh, it doesn’t matter, my Kelas”, Garak said, straddling Parmak and slowly lowering himself onto him, “a-aah, I can’t… can’t last, either, dear, oh, please… _please_ move…”

Parmak swallowed hard, gripping Garak’s hips, fingers digging desperately into his flesh, making him wince and squirm atop him. “Please, yes”, Garak whispered as Parmak began to thrust, “please, please… oh, _perfect_ , Kelas…”. Taking it, being fucked so unbelievably gently, Garak knew his climax would destroy him.

He’d had rough, he’d done rough, so many countless times, but this… oh, this was taking him apart from the inside out. Garak felt himself dissolve around the wonderful, hard prick inside him, felt it spear him and impale his very heart, oh so gently. He keened, wordlessly, almost too quietly, feeling tears, of all things, begin to run down his face, because this, oh this: those steady, deep thrusts, the hands gripping his side, the nails scratching his back and the flushed, swollen ridges all over his body, this: felt like absolution.

Garak came, silently, brutally, a voiceless scream ripping itself from him as he rode pleasure so intense he felt _pain_ , and it was so very, _very_ good. Dimly, he felt Parmak empty himself inside his body, and that, if he hadn’t been so close already, would have been enough to make him come, “yes…” he groaned with Parmak’s final, faltering thrusts, “yes…”.

They fell silent as Garak let Parmak slip out of his body, rolling to the side. They faced each other, probing each other’s gaze, but finding nothing there but the whole truth of each other, bent and twisted as it might have been, but beautiful nonetheless. I don’t deserve you, Garak thought, but I will have you if you offer, because the Lords know I’m no saint.

“So this is us?” Parmak wondered quietly, trailing a hand down Garak’s chest, playing languidly with his scales.

“If you will have it”, Garak affirmed, “if you will have _me_.”

Instead of answering, Parmak drew Garak close; Garak found, he did not mind this closeness at all.

* * *

“Is it ruined?” Parmak asked after breakfast the next day, just before he was due to leave for work again. He had carefully unfolded his scrubs, spreading them out on the cleared table.

Garak looked at the blood stains in silence. Neither of them were squeamish, though Parmak supposed for different reasons. It was what it was. “Maybe not”, Garak finally said, looking up. “Leave it to me, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Parmak offered his palm with a gentle bow of his head, meeting the other’s hand and clasping his arm. He felt an unusually possessive surge as he drew Garak’s hand up and pressed a kiss into the inside of his wrist. “Of course.”

As it turned out, the stain didn’t quite wash out; but a couple of days later, Parmak found the garment neatly folded atop his pillow. Where it had been stained, Garak had made new stitches, and new floral patterns were twining along the slight shadow that was still visible and would never quite disappear. The embroidery took it up, including it in its negative space, elaborating on it where the shape would mimic a petal, a leaf, or a stem. Perek for the dead, Parmak thought, tracing the complex needlework. His eyes were brimming with tears.

“It’s beautiful.”

Garak straightened, reaching to press a kiss to Parmak’s chufa. “I’m glad.”

* * *

Dear Doctor Parmak,

I am glad to hear that our mutual friend is well enough to haunt your days. I have read your letter over and over, and of course I will come, but I have done one better and taken a leave of absence to start a private foundation for medical relief for Cardassia. I know it’s not much, but the foundation is doing well, and if all goes according to plan, we can start delivering supplies by the end of next month. There are already more than a dozen volunteers who’re willing to help on site, too, once we figure out the logistics.

As for my arrival, I will probably be well on my way already when you receive this letter.

I am looking forward to meeting you, as well as seeing my friend Elim Garak again.

Julian Bashir


End file.
